


The Seven Deadly Sins Affair

by spikesgirl58



Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:30:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon and Illya travel to the home of a dead THRUSH to pick up a package for Mr. Waverly.  While there, they encounter the seven children of the THRUSH.  It isn't long before the children start dropping off, one by one, each one a victim of a deadly sin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seven Deadly Sins Affair

 

PROLOGUE

 

Alexander Waverly hung his hat and umbrella on an ornate coat rack and walked slowly to his desk.  He always dreaded coming back after a weekend, especially a quiet one. That usually meant the work was crouching on his desk, ready to pounce upon him like a paper tiger.

 

The door to his office slid open and a young woman entered carrying a tray.  "Good morning, Sir."  She set the tray down and moved to pull open the drapes to the only window in the UNCLE building.  "Did you have a nice weekend, Sir?"

 

"It was pleasant enough to make Monday morning all that much more unbearable to face."  He studied the woman for a moment.  They were getting younger each year it seemed.  He didn't remember this one's name or face.  "Where is Miss Wilkensen?"

 

"On her honeymoon, Sir.  I'm her replacement, Barbara Hambley."  Deftly, she poured out a cup of tea and added to it a dollop of cream and a lump of sugar.  "Your mail is on your desk along with the necessary files and the dossiers that you inquired about on Friday evening.  If you need anything, sir please let me know."

 

"Thank you, Miss...Hambley."   Waverly waited for her to depart before walking to the desk and reaching for the cup.  With a steady hand, he dropped in another two sugar cubes.  Doctor must have gotten to her as well as his wife, he decided as he glanced down at the mail neatly stacked upon the mahogany surface.  A powder blue, bulky envelope caught his attention.  He sipped at the sweet liquid carefully and sat, reaching for the current object of interest.

 

It was from a prominent law firm and Waverly immediately wondered if it was yet another paternity suit against Mr. Solo.  One a year was quite enough for him.  No way of knowing until he opened it and he slit the paper easily with a letter opener.  Taking out the envelope's contents, he unfolded them and held  them flat with one hand.

 

Retrieving his glasses from an inner jacket pocket, he perched them upon his nose and began to read, even as his hand fumbled with his ever present briar pipe.

 

"I don't believe it.  After all these years, you remembered," Waverly muttered in disbelief, and then he leaned forward.  "Miss Hambley, would you please contact Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin and inform them that regrettably their day off has been canceled."

 

"Yes, sir."

 

Still clutching the sheets of paper, Alexander Waverly settled back in the leather chair and let his mind wander.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

Napoleon Solo kissed the woman deeply, running his hands though the long hair, down her back, caressing her. He could smell her perfume and feel her body press closer to his.

 

"Oh, Brenda," he murmured into an ear and the woman pulled back, her eyes dreamy and half closed.  She opened her mouth and Napoleon waited for the words of love and encouragement.  All that came out was a beep.

 

"Beep?" he asked.

 

"Beep, beep," she responded, sounding suspiciously like a communicator.  Communicator?  Napoleon woke with a start, his hand reaching for the demanding instrument even before he was fully awake. He'd taken the cap off and lifted the antenna before his conscious mind had even had a chance to talk him out of it.

 

"Napoleon here," he yawned into the silver, tube‑like instrument.

 

"Sorry to have to wake you, Mr. Solo.”  It took him a minute to place the voice.  Ah, yes. the shapely redhead who was replacing Sarah Wilkensen.   “Mr. Waverly asked me to give you a call."

 

"Just out of friendliness, I hope."  He yawned again and stretched.

 

"Afraid not.  He wants you and Mr. Kuryakin in here as soon as you can."

 

"I wonder why I even bother to try to take any time off," Napoleon rolled over onto his back.  "Have you gotten a hold of Mr. Kuryakin?"

 

"Not yet, I was saving the worst for last."

 

"I'll call him for you."

 

"I'd really appreciate that, Mr. Solo."  Even the communicator's tinny reception failed to eliminate the seductiveness from the woman's voice.  “Really, really  appreciate…Napoleon…”

 

"I’m counting on that, Miss Hambley; tell Waverly that I'm on my way in."

 

"But how did you know my name?"

 

"A good agent knows all," Napoleon said with a smile, mentally adding, 'including the name of his next conquest'. "Napoleon out."

 

He rose and walked to the bathroom to take care of one or two things, then moved to the kitchen to start the coffee perking.  If he was going to have to go in, he was going need some caffeine under his belt.  That accomplished, he walked back to the bedroom and picked up the communicator again.

 

"Open Channel D.  Illya, are you home?"

 

 

Illya Kuryakin was in the middle of brushing his teeth when his communicator went off.  At first, he was tempted to just let it sit on the coffee table and chirp at him, but the call of duty ran too deeply in him to ignore it, even at the cost of his first day off in three weeks.

 

Spitting the mouthful of toothpaste into the sink, he wiped his mouth on a towel and trotted out to his living room, resignation slumping his shoulders.

 

Collapsing down onto the unmade sofa bed, he picked up the instrument.

 

"Kuryakin here."

 

"I just want you to know that this wasn't my idea."  At the sound of his partner's voice, Illya sighed and ran a hand through his blond hair.

 

"Not today, Napoleon.  I've got a million things to do and not one of them involves UNCLE."

 

"And the first on the list is reporting to Mr. Waverly."

 

"Why us?  Doesn't he have any other competent agents?"

 

"Apparently not.  I’ll pick you up in half an hour."

 

"I'll try to be gone by then."

 

Yet the Russian was standing curbside when Napoleon pulled up in a nondescript sedan twenty eight minutes later.

 

"I'd say good morning, but I have a feeling it's far from that," he tried as his partner slid in.

 

"Just drive, Napoleon, and permit me to mourn for my lost day off in brooding silence."  Illya sank back against the seat and burrowed his chin into the warmth of his coat jacket.  "Why is it that fall gets shorter and colder each year?"

 

"Might be that you're getting older."

 

"Couldn't be.  I stopped aging at thirty.  I found this painting, you see..."

 

 

                                                                                ****

 

 

Alexander Waverly was staring out the window when they arrived, one hand absently caressing a drape, the other holding a cup of long cold tea.

 

Wordless, the two agents entered and when it became apparent that their superior wasn't going to say anything, they took their places at the circular table, both waiting patiently until he chose to make his thoughts plain to them.

 

"How much do you know about THRUSH?"  Waverly’s voice was so soft, Napoleon almost didn’t hear it at first.

 

He exchanged a 'Is this a trick question?' look with his partner and sat up straighter as he spoke, "As much as any other UNCLE agent, I suppose.  When it was founded, by whom, its basic tenets, the usual information that we need to combat it on a daily basis."

 

"What about the unusual, Mr. Solo?"

 

"That I leave to Illya," Napoleon replied with a grin to his younger partner.  A corner of the Russian’s mouth smirked up into a half-smile.

 

"If I were to mention the name Delany Corazon, what would it mean to you?"

 

"He was one of the members of the group that was to eventually become THRUSH," Illya said, his brow furrowed in thought as his brain shifted through information.  "Sort of a pre‑THRUSH, if you will.  There was a rumor that he was actually THE founding member, but the reports are muddled and unsubstantiated."

 

After another long moment, Waverly spoke, "He also served with me in the same unit during the Great War.  Unfortunately, he and I had very different ideals.  His was a life of evil, not only creating it, but prolonging, and encouraging it.  He was a brilliant, but cruel man, ruthless, with a single-mindedness that defied logical explanation or even sanity.”

 

“Well, you know what they say logic is – it’s merely being wrong at the top of your voice.”

 

“Mr. Solo, this man could have trumpeted his from the deepest recesses of the earth and still made himself heard.  I could relate stories about him that would astound and enrage you.  At the same time, I never knew a man more loyal or more committed to a cause or a man.  His word was his law."

 

"Sounds like the sort of man that only a mother could love," Napoleon murmured, toying with a pencil.

 

"Alas, quite the contrary, Mr. Solo.  Delany Corazon was married many times, seven in all, I believe.  All of the ladies committed suicide, one by seppuku."

 

"The knife was no doubt held by Corazon himself," Illya said to Napoleon, who nodded.

 

"He was never convicted of any crime, yet he committed several.  He was singularly gifted at evading his just desserts," Waverly continued, as if unaware of the comment.

 

"What a guy," Napoleon muttered softly to his partner.

 

"He is now dead and the world is well rid of him."  That was said with a finality that could not be argued with.

 

"I also suspect that you didn't call us here to tell us that, Sir."  Napoleon folded his hands before him and looked his superior straight in the eye.

 

"Very astute, Mr. Solo and to the point, as always.  This morning, I received a letter from Mr. Corazon's attorneys.  UNCLE has been named in his will."  Waverly spun the table a half turn until the sheets of paper sat before them.

 

"For what?"  Napoleon was stunned.  "The last time I checked, we had no use for any of their particular means of methods of world domination."

 

"Apparently, Mr. Corazon kept diaries from his early days until just before he died.  It was his last wish that we, that I, have them.  While it may not be of any value to us, it may provide some interesting insight into the beginnings of THRUSH itself."

 

"Know thine enemy," Illya said as he put on his glasses to read the legal papers.

 

"Precisely, Mr. Kuryakin."

 

"When do we leave," Napoleon asked, already knowing the answer.

 

"Tomorrow morning.  I will have all the necessary arrangements made.  You have the rest of today to make whatever arrangement you need to personally take care of.  Perhaps a haircut, Mr. Kuryakin?”

 

Illya rolled his eyes for Napoleon to see, but answered seriously, “I shall take that under consideration, Sir.”

 

“Oh, and be sure to bring warm clothes, the pair of you.  I hear that Maine can be cool at this time of year."

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

Napoleon Solo flapped his arms about him, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other as he watched the bus, most recently his only source of warmth, drive away.  "Boy, when Mr. Waverly said it could be cool here, he wasn't kidding."  The suit and top coat did little to combat the cold wind that crept into every recess available.  Hand-stitched Italian leather shoes were very stylish, but also did little to protect his feet from the cold.

 

"When have you known Mr. Waverly to kid, Napoleon?" Illya Kuryakin, feeling superior in his black turtleneck and wool pea coat, wrestled with the sheets of paper in his hands buffeted by the wind.  It was as if the wind was trying to snatch them from his hands.  "It says that we are to wait here for someone to pick us up."

 

"Does it say what happens after that" Napoleon grumbled good-naturedly, blowing on his hands to warm them. “As in the stowing of two UNCLE icicles into the trunk?”

 

"Take heart, Napoleon, you'll be all right.  In fact, I think I hear a car now."

 

A grey limo came to a smooth stop before them and a uniformed chauffeur climbed out.  "Messrs. Solo and Kuryakin?"

 

"That's right," Napoleon said, stepping forward.  "You are the driver from the Corazon Estate?"

 

"Correct.  If you'd like to get in, I'll load your luggage.   You will find the heater on the armrest and you can adjust it to the correct temperature.   Visitors find our evening a touch nippy."  The man opened a door and permitted them to climb in before slamming it firmly behind them.

 

Napoleon settled back against the crushed velvet seat and smiled at the comfortable temperature.  However, his pleasure turned to alarm when he suddenly became aware of the fact that there was no door handles on the inside of the car.

 

"Illya?"

 

"I see," Illya said, his voice tightly controlled.  "It may be nothing."

 

The driver climbed in and Illya leaned close to the glass partition that separated them from him.  "Excuse me; is there any reason why there are no handles in here?"

 

The man’s voice filtered back to them.  "The Master had them removed to keep people from making any untimely exits.  Now, gentlemen, why don't you relax and take a little nap?"

 

"Nap," Napoleon asked, jumping back from a puff of grey smoke that issued from a hidden jet.  There was a sudden panic and scuffle in the back of the car while the two agents struggled against the doors and windows, then they collapsed.  The driver leaned back and concentrated on his driving.

 

 

 

Napoleon Solo stirred in his sleep, a persistent shaking keeping him from returning to his dreams.

 

"Napoleon, wake up!"  Twice in as many days, Napoleon permitted his sleep to be interrupted.  This time, he opened his eyes to stare into the worried face of his partner.

 

"Hi."

 

"Hi, yourself.  I was beginning to get worried about you."  Illya helped his partner into a sitting position. "How do you feel?"

 

"Not too bad, maybe a little groggy.  Feel like I’ve been out for hours."  Napoleon sat up, a little surprised that he was resting on a comfortable bed and not on a straw mat in a cell.  “I have expected to wake up in shackles and quarter irons.”

 

"Mr. Corazon is apparently one for secrecy.  By my calculations, we’ve been asleep for about nine hours.  They took away our watches…among other things.”  Illya held up his hand, even it was stripped of his wedding band and its hidden garrote.  “We were thoroughly searched.”  He moved uncomfortably just as Napoleon was noticing similar discomforts. “Right down to exchanging our clothes for these outfits.”  He gestured to the denim jeans and shirts they were both wearing.  “Even our underwear, shaving kits, everything was switched out.   Whoever is calling the shots here obviously doesn’t want us making any escape attempts.”

 

Illya stood and wandered to one of the two tall, curtained windows that stood at the head of Napoleon's bed.  "And if you think that’s something, wait until you see our view."

 

Napoleon swung his legs over the side of the bed and, taking a deep breath, got to his feet.  A couple of unsteady steps cleared his head a bit and he began to notice the room for the first time.     It was large, bigger than his entire apartment in fact, and done in mahogany and oak, brass and velvet.  A bookcase lined one wall and the crystal decanter that stood on a table by the fireplace was filled, as was a nearby fruit bowl.  Napoleon moved to the decanter and opened it, cautiously sniffing the contents.  The aroma of Scotch wafted up to him.

 

"Some kind of accommodations," he murmured as he came to stand beside Kuryakin.  He glanced out the window and involuntarily caught his breath.  Immediately beneath their window the earth dropped away to meet a thrashing and boiling sea, ominous black rocks breaking the surface. "But certainly not for anyone with vertigo."  He took a step back.  "I wonder if this guy knows about wave erosion."

 

"It’s quite a deterrent for someone trying to escape.  By the way, we are locked in."

 

"Then how did you get here?"  Napoleon followed Illya's point to a partially ajar door.

 

"We share a bathroom. My room is on the other side.  It’s basically the same as yours, with an identical view.  However, I have vodka, Grey Goose, from the taste.  He’s strange man, our host…or hostess, at this point that hasn’t yet been made clear."

 

"Talk about feeling like a sitting duck."

 

"Or plucked THRUSH," came a voice from behind them and the UNCLE agents turned. "Welcome to the Ends of the Earth," the dark‑haired man gestured expansively, then clasped his hands to his chest. "I am your acting host, Portnoy Corazon, the only Corazon that has or ever will amount to anything."  He was fashionably clad in a light gray suit and whiter than white shirt.  Everything about him was crisp and sharp, from the crease in his trousers to the pencil thin mustache.  The fact that he barely reached Napoleon’s chin was apparently of no never mind.

 

"I see.  I'm," Napoleon started, presenting his hand.

 

"I know who you are; I know everything about you and your partner."  Corazon turned his broad back upon them abruptly.

 

"That should save us a lot of small talk then," Illya said, more to Napoleon than anyone else.  "Which son are you?"

 

"The first and only son worthy of the title of Corazon in the eyes of my father, weakling that he became.  Now, if you will follow me, breakfast is being served."  He took a few steps and looked back over his shoulders.  "That was not a suggestion, gentlemen."

 

 

Exchanging glances, Solo and Kuryakin followed the man from the room into a portrait ‑ lined hallway.   At least, Napoleon assumed them to be portraits, for all were turned to the wall, except for one.  It bore a striking resemblance to the man who was acting as their host, the same piercing eyes, and arrogant expression.  The man paused before it, admiring the canvas with thinly disguised pride before wiping away an imagined accumulation of dust.

 

"Slovenly pig, that maid.  I don't know why we bother to retain her.  She will be the first one to go," he muttered as he applied a blindingly white handkerchief to the gilded frame.

 

"This must be quite a happy little household," Napoleon murmured to Kuryakin.

 

"Probably lines of people trying to get in here," the blond agreed.

 

"It is very rude to talk behind your host's back," Corazon reproved without turning.

 

"We were just admiring the decor and didn't want to bore you with our observations," Napoleon lied easily.

 

"Oh, go ahead and bore away; they are all my own suggestions.  I like to be constantly reminded of my own brilliance."  Despite the man's other shortcomings, a faltering ego was not one of them.  Yet, Napoleon had to admit that the house was beautifully done and maintained.  He could only guess at what cost.  The mahogany banister fairly gleamed as they descended the polished staircase and moved into a white and black marble dining room.  There were six other people already seated around the table, one fully engrossed in addressing his breakfast and Napoleon's mouth dropped at the sight of him.

 

“Illya, you know me to be very tolerant, but I've never seen a man that large," he whispered to his partner, who nodded in agreement.

 

“Perhaps a glandular condition or hormonal imbalance.”

 

"Really, Garth, can't your self-gratification wait until all of the guests are here?" came Corazon's sharp reprimand.

 

"I can't help it, Port, I'm so hungry," was the whining protest.  Judging from the man's girth, Napoleon decided that Garth probably hadn’t spent much time very hungry.

 

"You're always hungry," muttered a redhead from across the table.  "Always!  People are starving worldwide and you're stuffing your face!"

 

"Gentlemen, my half‑sister, Angelica, the root of her name being the thing she is furthest from."  Portnoy indicated two chairs. "You two sit here where we can all keep an eye on you.  Having UNCLE agents in the house is bad enough without having them contaminating everything with their nasty little ‘Everyone is equal’ hands. The other negligible members of the family are Cleve, Lydia, Simpson and Englewood, my father’s other contributions to the gene pool."  He waved to each of them in turn, walked to the head of the table and snapped his fingers.

 

As servants hurried to place platters of food on the table he sat, a grand gesture in itself.

 

Illya noted with a practiced eye that, while everyone else got plain white china, Portnoy's plate was trimmed with gold. Then Illya felt a hand on his knee and he turned to stare into the intense blue eyes of Lydia Corazon.  The heat was practically coming off her in waves and she dug her fingers into the flesh of his thigh.

 

"I have a most interesting collection of obscure books in my room, if you'd like to see them,” she purred.  “They have the most interesting illustrations.  What are your thoughts on the _Kama Sutra_?”

 

“Difficult if you have a bad back,” Illya said.  With as little flair as possible, he removed her hand.  “And very ambitious for the uninitiated.”

 

"Give it a rest, Lydia," snarled Angelica, slapping her utensils to the table.  "I'm sure Portnoy put padlocks on their flies before he let them come downstairs to face you, slut."

 

"You take that back!"  Lydia swung to face her sister, a hand snatching up a knife, nearly clipping Illya in the chin as she swung it around.

 

"Make me."  Angelica was on her feet, her own knife held at the ready.  Lydia, shrieking like a mad woman, took off after her and Angelica, still taunting, ran ahead her.

 

Napoleon was halfway to his feet before the clay-like hand of Simpson caught his sleeve.  "Oh let them go.  With any luck, they'll kill one another and you won't have to worry about Lydia raping you tonight.  Believe me, it's not worth the effort," the man yawned and leaned back in his chair.  "So very little is these days."

 

"If you weren't bone idle, you might find out that it's not so."  Up to this point, Cleve had been silent and his sudden comment surprised Napoleon.  The darkest member of the Corazon family boasted both jet-black hair and eyes, attesting to a Spanish heritage in part. Cleve pushed his plate back and stood.  "If you will all excuse me, I've got some business to attend to."

 

As he walked past Portnoy, his arm was grabbed.  "I'm warning you, Cleve, you keep your hands off that maid.  Her husband might try to cut you into little pieces again and this time I won't stop him."

 

"Isn't that a comfort to know?"  Cleve straightened his tie with a practiced move.  "Besides, she isn't the only fish in the sea.  Pardon me."  The man walked away and Portnoy swore beneath his breath.

 

"Cleve, you get back here!  I haven’t dismissed you," Portnoy called after his brother and when it became apparent that wasn't enough, the oldest Corazon sprung to his feet and chased after the man.

 

"I wonder if there's any more food in the kitchen," Garth climbed to his feet and began a slow meander in that direction, floorboards literally creaking beneath the burden.  Simpson's head had fallen to his chest giving all the appearance of a man deep in sleep.

 

"Everyone has such an interesting life, except me." Englewood had also risen and drifted towards the staircase.

 

"This is getting more and more bizarre as time goes on. How much do you suppose Mr. Waverly really wants that diary?" muttered Illya as he sipped his coffee. 

 

Napoleon helped himself to a piece of toast and offered the plate to his partner before arching an eyebrow at the thought.  "Lots, I hope."

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

"Have you noticed the doorknobs in this place?" Napoleon Solo looked away from his task of shaving to his partner.  Their interaction with Portnoy and the rest of the Corazon clan earlier had interrupted his morning routine.  "Or the lights?" Kuryakin continued, entering the bathroom he shared with the American.

 

"No, I can't say that I have.  What about them?"  Napoleon rinsed the disposable razor under the fish shaped faucet and returned to his cheek.

 

"They're detachable from the outside."  Illya offered one up for examination.  "They pop right off."

 

"Isn't that a Viking custom?  Lock in your guests so that they couldn't get out and kill you at night?"  Napoleon straightened and wiped the extra lather from his face with a hand towel.  "A trusting sort, our Mr. Corazon, or perhaps it was his son's idea."  He gave his face a once over with his hand to make sure no whiskers had escaped his attention.

 

"If someone ran him through, they'd have to be careful not to be blown away by all that hot air.  Talk about bombastic."  Illya sat on the edge of the bathtub, juggling the brass knob in his hands idly.

 

"So I noticed.  What about the lights?"

 

"Kerosene - I don't think the place is wired for electricity."

 

"It'll be nice and cozy tonight for the reading of the will.  I hope there aren't any terms or limitations connected with this, like whoever survives 48 hours in the place gets the whole pot.  I'm for not staying here any longer than necessary."  The razor only did a haphazard job on his darker hair and he grimaced.  Glancing at his partner, he noted that Kuryakin’s five o’clock shadow was practically invisible.  “You’re lucky.  You can go for days without shaving.”  He passed the razor over to the Russian and leaned back against the counter.

 

“Being blond does have its advantages,” Illya said.  “But it can be difficult growing up. When one’s contemporaries look like testosterone-driven silverback gorillas and you still have the physique of your grandmother, life can be made challenging.”  He flicked his gaze from the mirror to his partner and then back.  “They’re dead now.”

 

“For teasing you,” Napoleon asked his tone light.  “That’s a bit extreme, even for you.”

 

“Not actually,” He paused, arching his neck. “I was disciplined for starting the ensuing fight and was chopping my way through a cord of wood.  The vehicle carrying them home from school went off an embankment and they were all killed.  Had they not given me such a hard time, I’d have been with them.  That was when I began to see my body as an advantage.”  He scraped the razor across his cheek and followed the path with his hand, frowning.  “But I think toilet tissue would be more effective than this razor.”

 

“Now you’re sounding like me.  So what do you think of the Corazons?”

 

“Spoiled American brats, the lot of them.”  Illya gave up and rinsed his face off.  “Why anyone would choose to spend their lives isolated and merely a bystander is beyond me.  I’d be willing to wager that not one of them have ever put in an honest day’s work.”

 

“Agreed and did you notice that not one of them resembles the other at all.  There is absolutely no physical resemblance between any of them.”

 

“You look nothing like your sister.”  Illya pointed out, his voice muffled as he toweled his face dry.

 

“Not that uncommon between two siblings, but there’s seven of them, Illya and not one looks anything like the other.  That’s strikes me as very peculiar.”

 

“Genetics has never been my strong point, Napoleon.  I think I’m going to grab a shower.” Illya started to unbuckle his pants.

 

“That fight really did cure you of all your insecurities, didn’t it?”  Napoleon let his gaze drop to the floor.  He’d seen Illya naked more times than he could remember, but his sense of propriety ran strong.

 

“Not all of them, but I am comfortable within my skin.”  He pulled his shirt and tee shirt off with one motion.  “I’m not sure if it’s the same for your room, but mine came equipped with a book on the Corazon family history. It’s on my night stand if you’re interested.”  He turned the water on in the bathtub and tested it.   “At least there’s hot water.”  He made sure the shower curtain was tucked into the claw foot tub before engaging the showerhead.

 

“Leave some for me,” Napoleon ordered, heading back to his room upon clouds of steam.

 

A fire had been laid earlier and started.  The furniture was arranged to take maximum advantage of the heat coming off it.  Not too far, not too close.  Napoleon flipped through the pages restlessly.  He felt strangely drained, like the fight had gone out of him.  He was aware, but unaware at the same time.  “Maybe a cold,” he muttered.

 

“I’m sorry?”  The Russian had emerged from his own room, still toweling his hair.

 

“Oh, I’m feeling a bit…”

 

“Odd?  Like you’re coming down with something?  Me, too.”  He tossed the towel aside and finger combed his hair.  “I would go so far as to suggest that our food is being drugged to keep us compliant.”  Joining the American at the fire, he sat and began to work his feet into the nondescript white tube socks they’d been provided.  “I feel like I’m back in that slave camp – too tired to move, too afraid of the consequences to try something and too stubborn not to.”

 

“Exactly my feelings.  I’d like nothing more than to just sit on this couch and watch the fire, yet I know, as an agent, I should be doing recon.”

 

“Not likely to be given the chance, are we?  We’re locked in again.”  You have a choice of reading, sleeping, pacing, or that,” He nodded to a chess board.  “White?

 

“Why not?”

 

Their lunch had been delivered through a small dumbwaiter.  Unfortunately, the shaft was too small, even for Illya’s compact frame, so that escape route was abandoned.  They ate sparingly; both knowing that the food was tampered with, but that very little else remained as an alternative.

 

Illya had wandered back to his room to read, or, more likely to nap and Napoleon had taken possession of the bathroom.  He stood under the stream of water, silently willing it to return his energy to him.  His words fell upon deaf ears, so failing that, he started to lather his hair.

 

His ear picked up a faint squeak, the sound of a door being opened.  Since it came from the Russian side of the house, he assumed it was Illya.  He was rinsing his hair when a pair of hands slid over his body and he cleared his throat.

 

“I’m guessing it isn’t Illya who came in,” he said, staying the path of the hands.  Carefully he turned in the tub and looked into the smoldering eyes of Lydia Corazon.

 

“You guessed correctly, Mr. Solo, and you win the grand prize,” Lydia murmured.

 

“And that would be?”

 

A hot mouth enveloped his and he decided that poor loser was a sad substitute for an enthusiastic winner.  And he was nothing if not enthusiastic.

 

Illya’s head jerked up at the noise, then dropped back down to his pillow as it became familiar – the ancient song of coupling and one he heard all too many times with Napoleon around

 

“God, Napoleon, don’t you ever take a break,” he muttered and rolled over.  Normally, he’d put more distance between himself and his partner at a moment like this, but their accommodations prevented that.  Thankfully, whatever lunch had been laced with provided an easy out and he fell back asleep almost immediately.

 

 

Napoleon looked up as Illya entered his room and smiled.  They were both starting to shake the effects of whatever they were being drugged with and he had to admit he’d spent worse afternoons.

 

“Better?” Illya asked, arching an eyebrow as he glanced over at Napoleon’s rumpled bed.

 

“Much.  As adverse as I am to mixing business with pleasure…”  He paused at the Russian’s snort. “As I was saying, as adverse as I am to mixing business with pleasure, this was very nice pleasure.”

 

“So I heard,” Illya said, smiling faintly.  “Again and again and again. You really need to learn to pace yourself, old man.”

 

“Funny, just wait.  I have a feeling I’m not the only one destined to be visited by Miss Lydia Corazon.  By the way, she does this thing with her tongue--”

 

“I shall take your word for it,” Illya interrupted him as their door was opened.

 

A butler entered.  “The master has instructed you join him for dinner.”

 

“And if we’re not hungry?”  Napoleon crossed his arms over his chest.

 

“It was my understanding that it was not a request, sir.”

 

Now Napoleon watched his partner accept a bread basket and help himself to two rolls.  Of course, these would not be tampered with, since the entire family was eating them.  These would be drug free. He mirrored the Russian and merely sampled his plate, never eating more than a mouthful of anything

 

“Don’t you like your food,” Garth asked, the juice from a tomato trickling down his chin.  The man was eating it like an apple.

 

“I suspect they’ve already deduced my special ingredient.”  Portnoy raised a wine glass to them.  “Very astute, gentlemen, I thought it would have taken you longer.  You have to admit it was a brilliant way to keep you…compliant.”

 

“What are you talking about,” Englewood said, his own plate suddenly pushed away.  “What have you done you egotistical maniac?”

 

“Nothing to you,” Illya said, calmly.  “It was only our food that was drugged as we represented an unknown.”  He broke the roll in half and buttered one side.  “And now I am assuming that this will now cease as we have been made aware of it and can take precautions.”

 

“It’s not as much fun now,” Portnoy admitted.  “Did you have a good afternoon, gentlemen?”

 

“Some of us better than others,” Illya said, glancing over at his partner.

 

 Napoleon, in turn, was studying Lydia Corazon.  For the woman’s part, she acted as if she’d never even seen them before, much less spent the afternoon in Napoleon’s embrace.

 

“The will is to be read after dinner this evening.  I am anticipating that you both will be eager and prepared to make a hasty departure.

 

“Better that than to over-stay our welcome.”  Napoleon buttered his roll.  “You know what they say about guests and fish – after three days, they both stink.  Despite your hospitality, we are both eager to be on our way.”

 

“Then we understand each other, gentlemen.”  Portnoy snapped his fingers and immediately a servant appeared.  “Bring Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin different plates.  We shall have them conscious for the reading after all.”

 

 

 

 

"And to my children, I leave my estate and fortune to be divided evenly between the survivors, on the condition that they remain in this house for a total of 72 continuous hours."

 

“You’re really something, you know that?”  Illya’s comment was loud enough for only Napoleon to hear.  The American darted a quick look in his direction.

 

"Illya," Napoleon muttered, but fell silent at the glare from Portnoy.

 

"Go on, Mr. Fulker, what exactly are the conditions?"

 

"Just as stated, Mr. Corazon.  You and your brothers and sisters must remain in this house for the next three days.  Should they leave they will then be excluded from the will."

 

"Seventy‑two hours?  In this house?" Angelica grumbled from her seat on the couch.  "I haven't spent that much time here or with them in my entire life. "  She indicated her siblings.  “I warn you, Mr. Fulker, you lock us up together and we'll kill each other."

 

"Possibly your father's plan from the beginning," Fulker observed, unconcerned as he swept the papers from the desk into his briefcase.  "It is interesting to note that the condition also applies to the UNCLE Representatives as well.  Mssrs. Solo and Kuryakin, I will bring the diaries with me when I return on Friday."

 

Napoleon leaned back against the crushed velvet of his chair and regarded the amber liquid in the crystal glass he held.  "Well, I've been in worse prisons with worse cellmates."

 

"Try to hold that thought, Mr. Solo."  Fulker stood and gathered up his hat and coat.  "You are on your own – the staff has been dismissed.”

 

“What?  That won’t do.  I’m not cooking my own food!”  Simpson protested from his spot by the fireplace.  “Physical labor is for the more unfortunate.

 

“Whatever you choose to believe, sir, it is of no matter to me.  Whoever is left on Friday morning will split your father’s inheritance.   I will show myself out. Good night and good luck."

 

"Why do I have some bizarre feeling that Waverly set us up for this?" Illya sighed as the lawyer left the study.

 

"He might have been expecting some kind of trouble; otherwise, he would have sent a regular courier."

 

"Oh, do stop talking shop, it's so boring," Simpson yawned hugely, displaying several gold fillings for all to see.  "I think I'm going to bed; it's been an exhausting day."

 

"Yes, why don't you, dear brother," Angelica agreed, her tone harsh.  "After all, you've had a full day, being awake for all of five hours.  And where are you going?" This was directed to Garth, who had struggled to his feet and was heading his enormous frame towards the study door.

 

"Midnight snack.  I sleep better on a full stomach."

 

"Come back here after you get something," directed Portnoy.  "And Simpson, you sit.  We need to talk, just the family."

 

Cleve smiled and came deftly off the couch.  "I'll go with him and make sure he isn't attacked by any rabid kidney pie."  He laughed and slung an arm over Garth's shoulders.

 

"Should have named him Girth,” Lydia muttered.  She left her spot by the window after watching Fulker's car drive away.  "What do we need to talk about, Port?  So, we spend the next four days here and then we collect the money and go.  What's the big deal?"

 

"All very commendable, my dear, except you heard what the lawyer said.  Whoever is left gets..."

 

Lydia interrupted, "You don't think we'd really try to kill one another, do you?"

 

"You seemed rather intent upon it this morning," Napoleon pointed out.

 

"What?  I didn't want to kill Angelica," protested Lydia as she leaned against the back of the Russian's chair and began to play with his hair. He stayed her hand and gently pushed it away. "I just wanted her to bleed a little."

 

"Sweet, sweet sister," Angelica murmured, turning in her chair to take advantage of the warmth of the fireplace.  “Like you have either the balls or the brains to make me bleed.”

 

"I don't think we should trust anyone for any reason, blood or otherwise," Portnoy warned as he poured a second glass of brandy for himself and came to stand in front of the fire.  "I personally would be delighted to increase my wealth two or three fold.  After all, I deserve it."

 

"Yes, but I want it just as badly," murmured Englewood for the first time the entire evening.  “I deserve it.   All of you got the talent, brains, money.  I got nothing.”

 

"You're just envious, Engle, because you weren’t born with the common sense that God gave the mushroom when it comes to finances."

 

"That's true, which is exactly why I should get more money.  I need it more than the rest of you."

 

"That doesn't make any sense," argued one of the others, but Napoleon’s attention was drawn away by a noise in the distance.  It was just a pop, but it sounded too much like gunfire for him to not be alerted.

 

"Did you hear that?"  Illya had sprung to his feet before he'd finished the sentence, nearly knocking Lydia in the nose as she loomed over his shoulder.  She’d been staring at his lap for the past few moments and Illya welcomed the excuse to move without drawing further attention to her.

 

"What," she asked.  “I heard nothing.”

 

"Gunfire," Napoleon answered.  "You'd better stay here."

 

"Don't give orders in my house," shouted Portnoy, taking a step towards the UNCLE agent.

 

"Fine." Illya stopped in his tracks and gestured to the door.  "You go get shot.  After all, it's not like either of us is going to benefit from this situation.  It’s just that we've had a lot more experience ducking bullets than you."

 

The oldest Corazon stopped, reconsidering his position. "Very well then, go investigate."

 

Napoleon, as was his nature, led the way, feeling quite naked without his gun.  He stopped and molded his lean frame against a wall, before gesturing to his partner. Illya darted from his hiding place and passed Napoleon, diving behind a Ming vase and sliding up the wall as a kitchen door opened and Garth staggered out, a brilliant splash of red decorating the front of his white shirt, hands spasmodically clutching his chest.

 

"Cleve, Cleve," he gasped before collapsing to his knees and Napoleon knew it was only his imagination that the floor shook beneath the great weight.  After a cautious glance left and right, Napoleon came to kneel by the man's side, experienced fingers lifting at the shirt to ascertain the damage done.

 

He stopped and gave a disgusted grunt before sticking a finger into the drying stain and smelling it.  "It's ketchup.  It's ketchup, Illya.  Get up, you're not shot," he accused the still-moaning Garth.

 

"Of course I’m not shot.  It's Cleve."  He pointed towards the kitchen.

 

"Illya?"

 

"I'll check it out."  The slim Russian disappeared through the double oak doors only to reappear a few moments later and headed to Napoleon's side.

 

"Took a direct hit to the back of the head.  From the amount of damage, I'd say the caliber was at least a .38.  There's not much left, if you know what I mean.  Perhaps we should put him somewhere..."

 

"Put what somewhere?"  Portnoy appeared behind Napoleon, gazing at his brother in disgust.  "Are you the one who got shot?  You do make an excellent target.  It’s about time!"

 

"Your concern is touching," Napoleon said.  "No, your brother here had a run‑in with a renegade ketchup bottle.  Unfortunately, it was your other brother, Cleve, who argued with the bullet. We need someplace to put his body."

 

"Why?"

 

"It's in the middle of the kitchen, for one thing." Illya started to help Garth to his feet.  After a moment of struggling, Napoleon joined in.  "In the second place, he no longer has much of a head.  I don't think the rest would appreciate the sight."

 

"Very well.  Put it in the attic and leave a couple windows open.  That should keep it from rotting before we get out of this Godforsaken dump.  Since I have a gift for words, I shall go tell the others.  After you, my dear, unfortunately not dead, brother."  He strode away, pushing Garth before him.

 

The UNCLE agents exchanged glances and Illya shook his head.  "His brother has been dead less than ten minute and he refers to him as ‘it’.  Makes me want to take a pin and..."  He made a sticking motion.

 

"Some woman will do that for him," Napoleon assured. "Now, where is he?"

 

Kuryakin led the way back into the kitchen.  Stepping over strewn pots and pans, he motioned to the body of Cleve Corazon, arms outstretched, face down.  Napoleon immediately began to circle the body, his practiced eye studying it.

 

"Looks like whoever shot him did it from behind.  Blood splatter is that way."  He pointed at the array.  “So he would have had to have been…” He pulled his partner in front of him and pointed a finger at his head.  “Bang and he fell.  He was facing a blank wall – what attracted him over here to stare at a blank wall long enough for someone to shoot him?”

 

"We shall have to speculate upon it later. Napoleon, everyone was in the study with us, except for Garth and I don't think he's got the stomach for it, pardon the expression, nor the speed.   I didn’t see a weapon."

 

"You know what they say about deceiving appearances. Look at you.  No one would ever take you on if they could see the real you."  Napoleon scanned the area for something to cover the body with, finally settling upon a tablecloth. "Besides, some of the servants might still be here and I understand that he was quite fond of one."

 

"Apparently too fond.  I'll take his feet."

 

"Thanks, partner, give me the heavy end..."

 

“We can switch half way up.”

 

Napoleon scowled as he hefted the man's upper torso.  "I just hope they have his room ready.  I hate having to wait for a late check‑out."

 

 

 

CHAPTER FOUR

 

Illya Kuryakin was having a delightful dream, not one that he frequently had.  There was a woman and she was doing wonderful things to his…self-control.  The sensations were incredibly real, then suddenly too intense for a mere dream.  He reached down and his hands caught a handful of hair, soft and pliable in his fingers.

 

"Oh, don't worry. I won't bite...hard."  The voice promised.  Hands roamed his body pushing, clutching, but his universe was suddenly focused upon just one spot of his anatomy.  Part of him was screaming a warning, another, a demand for completion.  He arched his back unconsciously and he felt the woman purr deeply in her throat.  The sensation was too much for his over-taxed sensory system and he moaned, holding her head still as he climaxed.

 

“And I’d heard you UNCLE agents were all business.  It seems to me that you and your partner know how to play just right.”  Lydia had started making her way back up his body, climbing up it as if he was a ladder and sliding into place with a happy sigh.  “Daddy always said you boys were hard asses…it’s nice to know that applies to other things.”  She started to rock slightly and Illya caught a groan in his throat.

 

His senses were heightened and a noise from the room next door abruptly pulled his focus.  Divide and conquer, it would be easier to attack them if one of them were distracted.

 

“Napoleon,” he mumbled and the woman suddenly stopped.

 

“What?”  She pulled back a hand and cuffed Illya sharply.  “You little…I’m giving you the best time of your life and you want…him?”

 

Illya’s ears rang from the blow, years of training kicking in; he caught her hand as she pulled back for another attempt.  Easily, he tipped her off, unconcerned that she’d misread his intention.  It didn’t matter, what did matter was that his partner might be in very real danger.    He rolled off the bed, crouching as a knife suddenly appeared.

 

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Madame.” He arched backwards to escape a slash.

 

“Miserable little faggot, she screamed and backed her way to his door. He wasn’t about to chase her as she darted out, hurling the knife at him.  He sidestepped it as it buried itself solidly into the cherry headboard of his bed.

 

After her stormy departure, Illya grabbed up the discarded robe, belting it as he went, and dashed to the adjoining room just as there was a soft knock at the connecting door, and at his invitation, a bleary ‑ eyed Napoleon Solo entered.

 

"What in Pete's sake is going on in here?  I thought we made it clear that there would be no loud parties after ten o'clock."  He surveyed the disheveled room, but didn't comment upon it.

 

"Lydia decided that I was a totally unacceptable bed partner."

 

"I could have told her that.  You snore.  What brought the discovery about?"

 

“Apparently I muttered your name at an inopportune moment.”  He sunk down onto the corner of his bed.  “I heard something suspicious coming from your room and thought you might be under attack.”

 

Napoleon lifted his head at that and chuckled.  "Illya, Illya, if you aren’t careful, those rumors are going to follow you forever.  No matter, perhaps she'll have better luck with one of her brothers."

 

"Napoleon, that's disgusting!"

 

Napoleon grinned.  "Guess there's no action here. Perhaps the good Miss Lydia will show up in my room tonight."

 

"Just make sure you’re ready for her evil twin and have had all your shots."

 

"I'm always armed and ready for action, Mr. Kuryakin, if you know what I mean."  He grinned and headed for his room just as a pounding came upon Illya's door.

 

"Not again.  Doesn't that woman give up?"

 

"Perhaps she’s decided upon a _ménage a tois_ instead.  I'll answer it." Napoleon waited until the pounding had ceased for a moment, then pulled open the mahogany door.  Immediately, Portnoy entered, face livid.

 

"All right, where is she?"  He stormed into the room, head swiveling from side to side as though he were watching some crazed tennis match.

 

"Who?"

 

"Lydia, that little cow.  I know she's here."

 

"Was here," Napoleon corrected.  "She left a few minutes ago."

 

Portnoy glared at him as if unsure whether or not to believe him.  "What are you doing here?"

 

"No reason...really."  Napoleon walked back to Illya's side and placed a casual arm on the Russian's shoulder, brushing the man's neck with a thumb.  Illya rolled his eyes and shrugged the agent’s arm off.

 

"Oh my god, no wonder she left!”  The man was backing from the room, face oddly flushed, and his breath coming fast.  “That would be a whole new twist to her little game."

 

"Did you find Lydia?" A voice from behind him made him jump.  With a look of disgust, Angelica repeated her question.  “Lydia, is she here?  She had no right to walk out of that meeting like that.  I don’t care who her mother was.  If we have to sit through your boring diatribe, so does she.”

 

"No, she's not here, at least not if she's in her right mind."

 

Angelica sighed, "I thought we decided upon that a long time ago.  She hasn't been in her right mind for years – another trait she inherited from her mother."

 

"Did you check her room?"  Napoleon's question was casual enough and it seemed logical.

 

"You obviously don’t know our sister.” Angelica swept her chestnut hair from her eyes and glared. “With fresh meat in the house, why would she be there?"  She pointed to the knife protruding from Kuryakin’s headboard.  “Case in point, she never goes anywhere without her little friend there. Whatever you said must have royally pissed her off, Blondie.”

 

Napoleon walked to the bedstead and yanked the knife free. He examined it, judging its heft and balance. “Nice knife,” he said to Illya before handing it over.

 

The Russian studied it for a minute and then found what he was looking for - a small button.  He depressed it and the blade slid cleanly into the handle.  He depressed it a second time and the blade slid back out.  “Very nice.”

 

“I’ll take that.”

 

“I think not,” Illya dropped it into the pocket of his robe.  “I’ve been unarmed far too long.  Unless, of course, you wish to take it from me, which is… inadvisable.”

 

The eldest Corazon took a step and Illya balanced himself, shoulders loose, ready for a charge that never came.  Napoleon stepped between them – his arms outstretched.

 

"I don’t think we need to escalate this, gentleman.  The question at hand is where Lydia might be.  We’ve eliminated our rooms as she has just left.  It would make sense that she would return to her own.”

 

“Why is that, pretty man?”  Angelica was obvious immune to the Napoleon charm.

 

“You were in a meeting together and she left, to come here, no pun intended.”  Napoleon smiled an apology in his partner’s direction.   “If she knew you were all elsewhere, where else would she go?  All the servants have left by now.  We are, in effect, alone.”

 

“Well deduced, Napoleon,” Illya said his eyes still on Portnoy in case the man tried for a backhanded rush.

 

“I’m not just good looks and charms, you know.”

 

Portnoy had again composed himself.  "But she doesn't sleep alone...either…ever."

 

“What do you mean either…ever?”  Angelica glanced from one agent to the other for a long moment before the light clicked on.  “Oh, that’s just a waste.”

 

"Nevertheless, you might check there.  In fact, we'll help you search, if you'd like," Napoleon said, gesturing towards the door.  He didn’t need to convey any message to his partner, out and about would beat being locked in their rooms any day.

 

"Why not?  The more the merrier."  Angelica walked away, not bothering to see who followed.

 

"I could think of a very good reason," muttered Portnoy as he kept a watchful eye upon Illya as he tied his robe more securely shut.

 

"Oh, do shut up, brother."  Angelica twisted her way through the corridors until she came to a door and pounded on it.  "Lydia, open up."  When there was no answer, she turned back to the three approaching men.  "See, I told you she wouldn't be in there."

 

"Just because she chooses not to answer the door is no guarantee that she's not in there."  Napoleon's comment was softly made, almost as if he was afraid of being heard.

 

With a scowl sufficient to melt the frozen depths of an iceberg, Angelica tried the doorknob.  It turned easily and she shoved the door open with more force than necessary, the responding crash making Illya shake his blond head.

 

"I've never seen anyone so angry so often,” he murmured to Napoleon, who nodded in agreement.  “I bet her stomach lining is a mess."

 

They entered the room as brother and sister made their way to the bed.  Lydia was there, covers up to her chin, eyes screwed shut.  Napoleon grabbed Illya’s arm, something wasn’t right.  There was a smell in the air, metallic.

 

"Wake up, Lydia," Angelica shook her shoulder roughly. "Come off it, you lazy cow!"  It was obvious she felt that the woman was ignoring her and feigning sleep.   Angelica tore the sheets from the bed and fell back a step in shock.  Her mouth worked, but nothing came out.  Immediately the UNCLE agents were at her side as her brother turned away in disgust.

 

Lydia's entire pelvic area was encased in a heavy iron girdle and blood seeped around the edges.  Her hands were locked upon it as if still struggling to free herself, even after death

 

"What is it?" Angelica asked, back to the bed, fists clenched.

 

"If I’m not mistaken, it looks like a 16th century response to infidelity," Illya said. “If you came home from the Crusades and found that your wife had been cuckolding you with your best friend, you could clamp one of those on her. It has several strategically located spikes, one of which would sever the femoral artery.   What you did to your best friend was anyone’s guess.  Where would someone get something like this in this day and age?”

 

“Father kept a rather extensive collection of such things...in the attic." Portnoy spun on Napoleon and Kuryakin.  "You were both up in the attic tonight and he," Portnoy indicated Illya, "certainly wasn't thrilled by the attention Lydia was giving him."

 

"But she was in my room less than fifteen minutes ago.  Napoleon came in just a few seconds after she left. Besides, just because I don’t...I’m not…" he hesitated for a moment, looking to his partner for a timely rescue.  “Like that.  It doesn't mean that I'd kill her," Illya protested, coming closer to the body.  A trace of blood on the pillow caught his attention and he tilted the woman's head up. "Look at this.  Someone staved her skull in first or at least I hope they did."

 

"Why first?"  This was from Angelica, now leaning against her brother.  Her lack of anger apparently left her weak.

 

"Would you lie still and let someone clamp that thing on you?" Napoleon volunteered as he pulled the sheets up and over the brunette head.  "I think your brother Cleve has a roommate."

 

"How can you joke at a time like this?"  Angelica's question was in the screaming range.  "There's some kind of maniac running around killing people, killing us and you think it's funny!"  Fury forced her from the room, her shouting preceding her.

 

"I'd better go and try to calm her down before she wakes the entire household." Portnoy followed after her.

 

"Looks like it's just me and you again, kid," Napoleon said to Illya.  The blond head shook in response.

 

"Why do we always get the cleanup jobs?" Illya began to pull the sheet loose from the mattress.

 

"I think it's in our job description.  Right below saving the world and promising to only bleed on company time. This time, I get the feet."

 

"And the doors."  Illya reached for the still warm shoulders  “At least _rigor mortis_ hasn’t set in yet.

 

They carried the body to the attic, struggling to climb up the narrow, nearly vertical staircase.  The open windows had made the room ice cold.  They settled the body down beside that of her brother in a small alcove and Napoleon glanced around in what little illumination the full moon offered.

 

"Don't see any lights up here."

 

"Over on the table, I think," Illya directed as he adjusted the sheet.  "Should be a lamp or something."

 

"Found it, but I don't have any matches."  He pulled the chimney off and touched a finger to the wick.  “Hold on, here they are.”  He struck a match and touched it to the wick.  The immediate area flashed with brilliant light and then it settled into a heavy yellow glow.  “Not very efficient, but it will do.”

 

"Are you proposing that we look for this chamber of horrors Portnoy says his father kept?"  Illya brushed his hands upon his robe and then tugged the neck closed.  “It’s a bit drafty up here for exploration.”

 

“If you slept with pajamas on, that wouldn’t be an issue, would it?”  Are you going back to sleep tonight?"  Napoleon lifted the lantern from its holder and aimed the beam in various directions.

 

Unlike the house, the attic was fairly small.  Years of clutter collected in each corner until it resembled an interior junkyard more than anything else.

 

"Let's see, central staircase and there's two rooms over here and the one on the other side that we've got the bodies in.  It looks like the back goes on for a ways?  Shall we leave them in peace and try this side first?"

 

They picked their way past the trunks and chests to the doorway of the small room and peered inside.  It had been a bedroom at one time, although why anyone would live up here as opposed to the opulence below was anyone’s guess.  Old yellowing posters clung to the walls, indicating the infatuations of a young girl.

 

"Look at this."  Napoleon pointed to a single, barred window.  "More security measures?"

 

"I think it was more like keeping someone in rather than someone out."  Illya examined the bars through the window.  “The screws are on the outside, although how they were hung is anyone’s guess.”  He straightened and a flash of white from a small closet suddenly caught his eye.  "Will you shine that light over here?"

 

Obligingly, Napoleon moved to his side and shoved the lantern into the small space and then he caught his breath and nearly jumped back.  On an old mattress lay a skeleton, an iron collar and its accompanying chain still fastened about its bony neck.

 

"I've heard of skeletons in the closet, but this is too much."

 

"I suspect we found one of the late Mrs. Corazons. What kind of animal would do something like this to a fellow human being?"  Illya gave the chain a tug, but it remained sturdily in place even after the considerable passage of time.  The skeleton leapt in response to his efforts and the skull lolled to grin evilly at him.  "Now I know I'm not sleeping tonight."

 

"Let's try the other room.  I've seen enough here." Napoleon pulled the light away, returning the skeleton to its dark repose.  Whatever he might be expecting, the second room didn't provide it.  It was also done up with aged posters and photographs, but it was minus a closet and an occupant, to Napoleon's great relief.

 

"Somebody in the family must have had a foot fetish," Illya whispered.  "Look at all the shoes."  Dozens of pairs of boots, high heels, loafers, lay on the floor, leather moldy with age.

 

"Second wife, I think, according to the file I read," Napoleon offered before turning away.  "Obviously, our Mr. Corazon didn't bother to toss any of the personal effects of his departed family members."

 

Upon exiting from the room, Illya pointed.  "It looks like this attic is constructed in an 'L' shape, Napoleon.  I think I see a bend."

 

It was at the far end of this that they discovered the room both had been uneasily searching for.  A crude doorway was hacked from the lower part of the wall.  There was no flooring inside, just planks stretched over naked two by fours with insulation stuffed between them.  From the ceiling and walls hung more instruments of torture than Napoleon had ever seen in one place and he’d had the opportunity to see the inside for more than one dungeon.  What wouldn't hang was braced up against the walls.

 

"Ye gods, the Spanish Inquisition lives again." Napoleon shook his head in disbelief.  "There are more and more twists to this adventure."

 

"Well, at least we know that Portnoy was telling the truth, although I don't think anyone's been here very recently."  The blond brushed at the cobwebs that were strewn across the doorway.

 

Interested, Napoleon reached up and touched one. Immediately, it fell away, dissolving like dust and the UNCLE agent grinned.  "Illya, forgive me, but I don't often have the opportunity to do so.  I have to relish it when I can."

 

"Can what?"

 

"Prove you wrong."  Cautiously, Napoleon moved into the room, stepping from brace to brace.  He paused before a spot where the insulation had been stripped away.  The Russian was immediately behind him, lest he be left in uneasy darkness and Napoleon passed the lantern to him.  "Hold this for a minute."  Carefully, Napoleon reached into the clearing, his fingers finding an iron ring after a moment's searching.  He pulled and a tile came up in his hand. Beneath him was the rumpled, blood‑stained bed of Lydia.

 

"Well, now we know how poor Lydia was killed," Illya whispered, and then he jumped up spinning, nearly losing his balance.  Instantly, Napoleon was up and grasping onto the man's robe, stabilizing him.

 

"Careful, partner, it's only a few feet, but it's enough to break your back or neck or both quite neatly. What happened?"

 

"This place is getting to me.  I thought I saw something moving over there."

 

The beam of light volunteered nothing and Napoleon nodded. "I know what you mean.  It might have been a rat.  Let's get out of here.  I've seen enough of this place to last a lifetime."  He replaced the tile and followed his partner back downstairs, only remembering to leave the lantern behind at the last moment.  He blew out the flame and settled it into place, glancing nervously about him as he headed for the stairs.  Suddenly, it seemed as if one of the corpses moved in the moonlight and he caught his breath, hurriedly taking the steps two at a time and nearly plowing into his partner in the process.

 

"Ghosties getting to you too?" came the quiet question and Napoleon, now in the full light of the hallway, looked doubtfully back at the attic door.

 

"Yeah."  And he carefully pulled a chest in front of the unpainted portal.  "And let's hope that keeps them in."

 

A sudden, half strangled shout for help from a distant corridor interrupted him and he exchanged a worried look with his partner.  "Now what?"  He ran from the room, Illya hot on his heels.  Napoleon paused at the doorway, and then turned right at the second yell.

 

Portnoy was kneeling in the hallway, cradling Angelica's head on his lap when they arrived.

 

"What happened?" Napoleon asked, dropping to his knees.

 

"She was upset," Portnoy murmured.  "Suddenly she just grabbed her head, like she was in pain and collapsed.  I think she's dead."

 

"Talk about dropping like flies," Napoleon looked up at the Russian.  "Any ideas?"

 

"I'm not a medical doctor, Napoleon.  Maybe an aneurysm.”

 

"A what?"  For the first time since they had met him, Portnoy was subdued, seemingly unsure of himself.

 

"Blood vessel in the brain ruptures.  It can cause instant death, although it usually doesn't.  It usually causes a stroke.  Was she displaying any signs?  Dropping eyelids, slurred speech or loss of muscle control?  Portnoy?”   He grabbed the man’s shoulders and shook.

 

The man looked over at the blond Russian, but remained silent.   "Why don't you go and tell the others," Napoleon suggested. "We'll take care of her now."  The American waited for the man to relinquish the body and walk away, shoulders slumped.  Portnoy stumbled off down the hallway, still in a daze. "You do realize that it's possible that this is just someone's scheme to pick up more of the inheritance," Napoleon said.

 

"Or there could be some kind of maniac running about," Illya countered.  "Although I think this death wasn't brought on by anyone other than herself.  She was pretty angry.  I’m betting her blood pressure was sky high.  If we’d been down here sooner, we might have been able to revive her with CPR.”

 

"Let's hope you're right."  Napoleon stood, hefting the woman's feet up.  "I can tell you, if I were on the list of surviving heirs, I'd certainly be spending a restless night."

 

"I'm not and I'm still plenty worried.  Just because the three victims were Corazons, there's no guarantee that one of us might not be next."

 

"You think it's a pattern then."

 

"It's a distinct possibility."  Illya looked from the woman back at his partner.  "Napoleon, you know me fairly well, better than anyone else.  You've seen me go through dozens of captures, tortures and the like.  You know I'm certainly no coward when it comes to such things, but..."

 

"But what?"

 

"Do we have to go back up into the attic?"

 

After a long pause, Napoleon shook his head, realizing that he also felt the same way.  "No, I think we can find a nice quiet suitable room down here."

 

"Thank you.  May I also sleep with you tonight, too?"

 

 

CHAPTER FIVE

 

 

"I don't think I closed my eyes all night," mumbled Simpson as he lifted a crumbling muffin to his mouth, unaware or unconcerned of the trail he left behind on his shirtfront.  He didn't even bother to brush them away with his napkin. "Both our sisters and poor Cleve ‑ all gone."

 

"At least they don't have to worry about surviving any more.  How I envy them," Englewood muttered, staring out the window.  “They got off easy.”

 

Illya flicked his own pair of bloodshot eyes up at the man and shook his head before returning to his breakfast.  The food wasn’t fancy, but it was solid – the type that he and Napoleon knew how to make.  After a few hours of small talk, they’d both abandoned the thought of sleep and moved downstairs to play cards and drink endless cups of coffee before witnessing daybreak.

 

Eventually each one of the remaining brothers had made it down stairs to join them in the dining room.

 

If Garth felt any sorrow, it wasn’t coming between him and his plate.  He ate as if he’d never seen food before, barely swallowing one bite before stuffing another into his mouth.   He remained silent, concentrating his full attention upon the food before him.

 

When it was apparent that no one else was going to speak, Napoleon asked,   "What were the lot of you doing last night anyhow that made you burst into Illya's room in the middle of the night?"  Napoleon spooned sugar into his coffee and stirred slowly.  He needed another cup of coffee like he needed another arm.  "It strikes me as an odd time to hold a family meeting.  We left you at 10 with you reportedly doing that very thing."

 

"What do you mean, Mr. Solo?"  True to his fashion, Portnoy made the question a demand.  “We don’t have to explain ourselves to you!”

 

"According to the file I read, none of you ever lived in this house at the same time.  Every time a new Corazon was born, your father took immediate measures to make sure all previous children were gone, either to boarding or military schools or nunneries."  Napoleon paused as he tried to imagine Lydia in a nunnery.  "This is the first time all of you have gotten together under one roof."  He sipped his coffee as Simpson nodded his head.

 

"He's right, Port.  I never thought about it before like that.  Why did Dad ship each of us off?"

 

"It was because Father wanted each of us to develop our own personality and not be corrupted by the others.  Those were his words not mine.  I have enough character that I would never be influenced by others."

 

"That certainly explains the lack of similar personality traits between any of you," Illya observed, carefully wiping the corners of his mouth and returning the napkin to his lap.

 

"And you're going to tell me that you and your brothers and sisters were all exactly alike."

 

"Certainly not, but we have common likes and dislikes, along with certain physical traits that connect us as siblings."

 

"And isn't that a scary thought," Napoleon quipped at his partner's frown.

 

A gasp from the-until then quiet Garth drew their attention.  The big man was ripping at his throat with both hands, his face contorted.

 

"He's choking," was Portnoy's immediate analysis. "What do we do?  Does anyone know what to do?"

 

Once again, it was Solo and Kuryakin to the rescue, Napoleon thought ruefully as he hurried to the man.  Garth had fallen from his chair and was on the floor writhing.

 

"He's too big for a Heimlich maneuver, Illya," and Napoleon pushed the man over to pound on his back, but to no avail.  Without a word, Illya flicked Lydia’s knife from his jean pocket and groped for a match.  "Hold on, Garth, help is coming."

 

Illya drew the blade through the flame and then shook it to cool it slightly.  "Okay, roll him over and cross your fingers."

 

"Have you ever done this before?" Napoleon asked as the Russian poised the knife.

 

"Ask Mansfield to show you his scar.   Okay, hold him still," then he stopped.  "Look at his lips.  They're covered with blood."  Suddenly, he dropped the knife and went scrambling for Garth's plate.  "It's full of glass. His plate is full of glass."

 

"He's gone," Napoleon said softly, fingers probing for a vanished pulse.  Silence followed the statement and he settled the man back onto the floor.

 

"And then there were three," came the feeble remark from Englewood.  "I think I'm going to be sick."  He hurriedly stood and headed for the kitchen.  Simpson slowly shook his head and Portnoy clutched at the table with whitened fingers.

 

"You!”  He pointed at Napoleon.  You did this," he finally choked out.  “You made the food!  This is to get back at me for drugging yours.”

 

“Think about what you’re saying, Mr. Corazon.  If we were indeed harboring ill will toward you, why would we tamper with your brother’s dish?  You’ve been eating your food right along without an issue.”

 

Portnoy stared from Napoleon to Kuryakin and then darted from the room and up the grand staircase.  Napoleon watched after him

 

"Simpson, you'd better go get your brothers and take them into the study.  I think it would be better if we all stay together at this point."  The man stood slow and started to shuffle in Englewood's direction.

 

"Do not think me unkind, Napoleon, but I cannot carry him up three flights of stairs," protested Illya, still examining the plate, poking at the remnants of glass shards.  "How could anyone eat a whole plate of this and not know?  I’ve heard about a mental disorder that impels people to eat compulsively, but you would think the pain would have stopped him."

 

"He's the only one who could tell you."  Napoleon stood and looked about.  "I'm going to see if I can find the cellar or a meat locker or something.  If Simpson gets back before me, keep an eye on the survivors."

 

"Right."  Illya straightened and began to search for something to cover the man with.  All he could find was the linen tablecloth and napkins.  With a devilish gleam in his eyes, he grasped the end of tablecloth and gave it a sudden yank.  Nearly all the china, crystal and silver remained in place.  What little tumbled or broke he ignored.  "I’ve always wanted to do that,” he said to the dead man.  “Well, Garth, it seems only appropriate that you be laid to rest beneath a tablecloth."

 

"As you live, so shall you die." A voice behind Illya intoned and the Russian involuntarily jumped.  He spun to face Portnoy.

 

"You shouldn't sneak up behind people, especially UNCLE agents," Illya warned him.  "Napoleon would like you to go to the study and stay there with your brothers.  If you're all in one room, you'll be a harder target."

 

"Or easier if one of you happens to be the killer."

 

Illya snorted and walked away from the man to adjust the cloth over Garth.  "Think about it, Portnoy.  Neither Napoleon nor I would benefit from your deaths."

 

"But our father was THRUSH."

 

"So are many of Napoleon's lovers.  We try not to hold it against them unless they force us to do otherwise.  Could you get his feet, please?"

 

"Me?  A Corazon?  Do physical labor?"

 

"He's your brother."

 

"Half brother and better off dead.  You can leave him there as far as I am concerned."  He stopped at Illya's scowl and backed up a step.  "I think I'll go find something to read in the study."

 

"Pompous egomaniac shit for brains," Illya muttered in the man's wake.

 

"I hope you're not talking about me."  A voice startled him for a second time in as many minutes.

 

"Don't do that," Illya growled, whirling on his partner, anger snapping in the blue eyes.  Napoleon held up his hands in mock surrender and smiled.

 

"Calm down, old friend. Are you okay?"  He watched the man sit down with a thump and rub his face.

 

"I'm sorry.  This whole thing is just getting to me.  That and a seemingly callous disregard for life are beginning to takes its toll.  What is it about money that turns men into monsters?”

 

Napoleon patted his shoulder sympathetically.  "We've got to keep our heads, especially since everyone else seems to be losing theirs.  Just be glad we've only got a couple of days to go."

 

"I only hope I can live so long.  Did you find the cellar?"

 

"It's just around the corner.  Wait until you see what's down there."

 

"I'm in no mood for further surprises, Napoleon. What?"

 

"A real, honest to God, graveyard."

 

"Be still, my beating heart."

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SIX

 

"It's obvious that we have a murderer in the house and I think it's time we took precautions."  As usual, Portnoy Corazon had assumed command of the situation.  He paced the length of the study, a poker in one hand, and a glass of whiskey in the other.

 

"I wish I'd thought of that," murmured Englewood as he stared into the glass of liquor he held.

 

"Oh, shut up, Englewood," Portnoy snapped, tossing down the remainder of his drink.  He poured more for himself without offering any to the other four men. "I still say the murderers are in this room at this very minute."  His glare came to rest on the men from UNCLE.

 

"Then why are any of you still alive?" Napoleon's question was barely audible, yet it caused a very visible reaction.  "We are trained to kill, efficiently, quickly, and without conscience.  If we'd been sent here for that, none of you would have lived through last night.  Isn't that right, Mr. K.?"  He glanced over at the Russian, who was lounging against a table, his expression veiled.

 

Illya's face had grown very serious, his brow knitting in concentration.  "And we certainly would not have resorted to the more imaginative methods already employed."  He chose that moment to crack his knuckles and flex his shoulders. Englewood moved closer to Simpson.  "I prefer to use my hands when I kill.  Guns are fine for any distance, but for an intimate confrontation, nothing can beat that personal touch, the feeling of a man’s life ceasing beneath your fingertips."

 

Napoleon adjusted his tie and did his best to keep a smile from his face.  When it fit the situation, such as now, Illya could be more intimidating than men twice his size.  "I think we've proved our point, Illya. We are not your killers, but we are willing to be your bodyguards and try to keep anything from happening to the rest of you."

 

"Fat chance of that."  Simpson had procured the half‑empty bottle of whiskey and was doing serious damage to the contents.  "I may not be in the best of condition, but I can take care of myself.  Now, I and my friend here," he indicated the bottle, "are going back to my room.  I am going to lock the door and stay there for the rest of our sentence here.  I would advise you all to do the same thing."  He grappled his way to his feet and started an unsteady walk to the door.

 

"I'll go with him, Napoleon," Illya volunteered, pushing himself away from the table.

 

"He's so brave; I wish I were," murmured Englewood as he stared out the window at the storm that raged without. The day was so dark that it was practically necessary to turn lamps on.  The roaring fire helped alleviate some of the gloom, but it still left Napoleon feeling oppressed.

 

Wordless, Portnoy strode from the room, his shoulders squared. Englewood stared after his brothers for a long moment and then sighed.

 

"I'm scared, Mr. Solo."

 

"Nothing wrong with that," Napoleon said, smiling at the man.  "Everyone gets scared."

 

"Not you."

 

"Yes, even me.  The truth of the matter is that I'm very scared at the moment.  The secret is not to let it control your actions. If you control the situation, then you can use fear to your advantage."

 

Englewood smiled.  "I guess so.  Think I'll follow Simpson's example and retire to my room."

 

"Would you care for an escort?"

 

"Yes, emphatically.  It's getting so I don't dare walk through the halls anymore.  You can't tell when a suit of armor might jump you."  He giggled and glanced around nervously.

 

"Tell you what, if you like, I'll even be happy to search your room before I leave you."

 

"I couldn't ask that of you...could I?"

 

"Sure," Napoleon said, with a grin and firm set of his shoulders.  "What's a bodyguard for?"

 

"What about Portnoy?" Englewood asked as they exited the study and headed up the stairs.

 

"He'll just have to watch out for himself until one of us gets back.  I don't think we have to worry much about it though.  Has he always been so...so," Napoleon hesitated, not wanting to use the wrong word and offend.

 

"Egotistical?  Pompous?  Self possessed?  Take your pick and the answer is yes.  From what I understand, he started bossing his mother around when he was only two.  The theory is that's what led her to suicide.  Somehow, either Port or Dad or possibly both, managed to convince her that Port was the reincarnation of Satan.  It's funny now, but wasn't back then.  It also helped that Dad was getting interested in Cleve's mom.  She was from Haiti and was practicing black magic at the time."

 

"How did she die?" Napoleon paused at the top of the stairs, looking around cautiously, then gestured the redhead on.

 

"She took a swan dive off the roof.  There's a widow's walk up there."

 

"Aptly named."

 

"She wasn't the only one.  Lydia's and Simpson's mothers went that way too."

 

"What about yours?"

 

"She went crazy.  Father locked her up in the attic.  I can still hear her even now, laughing or screaming.  My room was quite close to the attic.  Then, one day, she stopped."

 

"Did you check on her?"

 

"Father had forbidden it."  He solemnly shook his head.

 

"And that stopped you?"

 

"You didn't know Father, Mr. Solo, and for that, be grateful.  I firmly believe, even to this day, that he could have controlled the tides had he wanted.  That's how powerful and strong willed he was."

 

They stopped before a door and Englewood reached for the knob, but Napoleon held up a hand.  "Let me go in first, just in case."  He jimmied the knob and pushed the door open.

 

A flash of metal startled him and he threw himself aside as something went whizzing by.  He landed awkwardly and grunted as too much weight came down on his left arm. The adrenalin in his blood kept the immediate pain from him and he climbed to his feet, holding the injured limb close to his body.

 

"What happened?"  Suddenly, Illya was there, yet Napoleon wasn't surprised.  The Russian had a way of showing up when he needed him the most.  Napoleon didn't bother to talk; he just waved his good hand in the general direction of the door.

 

"Good lord," The whispered comment from Englewood drew attention to him. He'd retreated from the doorway to hide behind a convenient hall table.  "If your reactions were a second slower..."

 

A dagger, nearly a foot long and still quivering, was imbedded in the wall not far from where Napoleon had stood. Cautiously, Illya crept towards the open door and peered around the edge.  "Napoleon, come and take a look at this."

 

A powerful spring‑loaded crossbow was mounted on the end of the bed, a trip wire leading from the trigger to the door.

 

Even Englewood had screwed up enough nerve to join them and looked in, puzzled.

 

"What's wrong, besides the obvious?" Napoleon murmured at his confusion, then winced as the man grabbed his arm. For someone as timid, there was a lot of strength in his hands.

 

"I made a mistake counting.  This isn't my room.  This is where Portnoy stays.  Oh my god...oh my god..."  He'd paled and started to tremble.

 

"Illya, you might have gotten your wish about the pin.  Would you get him to his room before he passes out?"

 

"Will you...?"

 

"I'll be fine, really."  Napoleon smiled, but knew he wasn't fooling his partner.  The arm was throbbing and there was a suspicious bulge where there shouldn't be one.  "I'm going to take a look around."  He went to the wall and started to study the knife, being careful not to touch it.

 

"I'll just be a moment."  Illya was dubious, but he led the still-quaking Englewood Corazon off.  The moment the Russian was out of sight, Napoleon collapsed in a nearby chair and held the arm close, finally letting himself feel the reaction from his brush with death.  Englewood had been right.  A half second more and he'd have been hanging from the wall like some bizarre sort of wall decoration.

 

He was still sitting there when Illya returned.  "Come on, Napoleon, he’s all tucked in.  Let's get you back to your room and let me take a look at that arm."

 

The dark haired agent nodded and rose, but remained silent until they had reached their adjoining rooms and Illya had carefully checked them for booby traps.  Napoleon sat on the bed and awkwardly unbuttoned his shirt one handed.  Then slowly he eased the injured arm from the shirtsleeve and winced at the impossible jut of bone against flesh.

 

Illya came to sit beside him, probing the swollen area gently.  "It's broken…compound."

 

"I've had enough broken bones to know that, Illya.  Can you set it?"

 

"I can try.  It'll hurt like hell."

 

"Not any more than it does now," Napoleon countered, looking about his immediate vicinity.  "You'll need something for a splint."

 

Illya appeared to be on the same hunt, but the moment Napoleon had turned his head, Kuryakin planted a firm blow into his partner's jaw.  Napoleon let out a surprised grunt and toppled sideways over onto the injured arm.  "Sorry, Napoleon, but it'll be easier on us both this way."

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

Illya Kuryakin propped his feet up towards the fireplace, whose flames crackled and popped.  The lantern over his shoulder provided less than adequate lighting and he had a faint headache from trying to read by it.  At a groan, he laid down his book and rose, taking a moment to stretch his back before walking over to the bed.

 

Napoleon Solo struggled awkwardly into a sitting position, helped at the end by Illya.

 

"How do you feel?" the Russian asked, turning Napoleon's jaw to study the bruise beginning to form.

 

"Can't say much for your anesthesia," Napoleon mumbled. "How long was I out?"

 

"I'd say about four hours.  You must have needed the rest.  You’re not swelling too much.” The man’s slender finger ran lightly over the limb.  “How's the arm feel?" 

 

Up to this point, Napoleon had completely forgotten about it, but now looked down at the immobilized limb.  "Not too bad really.  Better than it did."

 

"Good, we'll have to get it X-rayed and properly casted when we get out of this place.  Now, if you will excuse me, I'm going to go check on our fellow inmates.  Then I'm raiding the kitchen. Do you have any requests?"

 

"Aspirin."

 

"Coming up."  Illya disappeared into the bathroom they shared, returning quickly with a glass of water and a bottle.  "I'll leave these with you.  Try to get some more rest."  He started to walk to the door and then stopped.  You should probably lock this behind me…just in case.”

 

"Knowing that you're on the prowl, how could I have less than peaceful dreams?"

 

"Good, I'll be right back."

 

The halls were already clocked by shadows, this in spite of it being late afternoon. Illya adjusted his turtleneck and started for the nearest room.  At his knock, he heard a cautious, "Yes?"

 

"It's me, Kuryakin.  Is everything all right in there?"

 

"Fine."  Englewood's response was muffled by the door.  “I’m fine, leave me alone.”

 

"Good, keep your door locked."

 

He left and headed for Portnoy's suite of rooms.  A knock brought him a similar, if egotistical, response and he departed with Portnoy still talking.  He didn't like the man, even suspected him of somehow having been directly responsible for all the deaths up to now.  He even illogically blamed him for Napoleon's injury.

 

Illya stopped before Simpson's room and knocked.  When that went unanswered, he pounded.  He was ready to break the door down when there came a slurred, "Whacha want?"

 

"Are you all right?"

 

"Who the hell cares?"

 

Illya took that for a yes and shook his head.  It was interesting to see how different people responded to stress; one with fear, one with indignation and the third with alcohol.  He, on the other hand, was primed and all systems go, anticipating some sort of action.  Who was wrong in this case, he mused as he walked down the stairs.  The house was eerily quiet and it was easy to believe he was completely alone.

 

Going through the refrigerator, Illya found some cold cuts and various cheeses, even three varieties of beer. Whoever had planned the menu for this week had done well. He gathered up a sampling of all three beers and turned his attention to the cupboards.  It took just a moment more to track down some rolls, dishes, and a knife.  He stopped there, holding the knife, measuring its balance, its ability to be used as a weapon.  It was certainly not as efficient as a gun, but it would do in a crunch and it would finally arm his partner.

 

Napoleon was kneeling, stoking the fire when he returned. He was concerned that the door was unlocked, but said nothing as he kicked it gently open.  The dark ‑ haired agent spun, poker raised at the Russian until he realized who he was.

 

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."  Illya placed his armful down on a table as Napoleon sheepishly lowered the iron rod.

 

"My nerves are just a little on edge, especially with this."  He lifted the bandaged and sling- enclosed arm.  "Feel like I'm a little at a loss."

 

"Don't worry about it; I brought reinforcements." Illya held up the knife for inspection.  "Don't know why I didn't think of it sooner.  Slip that into your sling, just in case."

 

"Somehow, it didn't seem quite as important when I had two good wings.  What else do you have?"

 

"Sustenance for the hungry spy."  Illya spread the food out.  "Would you like ham, pastrami, or that all‑ American favorite, bologna?  We also have some Swiss, cheddar, and provolone."

 

"You're better stocked than the deli down the street from my place," Napoleon said, coming to stand beside him. "What's in the bottles?"

 

"Beer. Thought we might try them."

 

"I don't know..."

 

"I checked on our fellow guests.  Englewood was simpering in the corner, Portnoy was fuming and Simpson was falling down drunk, but they were all safe and sound, at least for the moment."  He handed Napoleon a bottle, only to have the American pass it back.

 

"It's only beer, Napoleon.  You're not going to be incapacitated by it."

 

"It's not that."

 

"You won't know you don't like it if you never try it."

 

"I quite agree. It’s not that either."

 

"Then what's the problem?"  Illya demanded, looking up from his sandwich making.

 

"Could you open it for me?"

 

"Oh, sure," Illya mumbled, sheepishly.  He popped the cap off and handed it back.

 

"Are you sure all three were okay?"

 

"I spoke with each of them.  The only one I'm really worried about is Simpson.  When someone is that drunk, they try to do strange things, like walk through windows or go for midnight swims off the balcony."  Illya put a sandwich on a plate, remembering to cut it at the last minute before passing it over to Napoleon.

 

Napoleon took it with a smile and returned to the fire, staring into it, sandwich and beer untouched.  Kuryakin noticed, but continued on with his task.

 

Finishing up a sandwich that would have brought Dagwood Bumstead to his knees in praise, he carried it to his partner and set the sandwich on a table.  Illya went to squat beside Napoleon.  The hazel eyes flicked down to meet the steady gaze.

 

"What's wrong, Napoleon?  Are you in pain?"

 

"A little, but it's not that.  It's just...have you ever had a feeling of impending doom?"

 

"Every time I walk into headquarters.  It comes with the territory after awhile."

 

"Illya, I can't explain it, but I just know come Friday morning, we're going to be the only ones alive in this house."

 

"You shouldn't brood, Napoleon.  It doesn't become you as much as it does me.  Besides, that's not such a bizarre prediction, especially since your own recent brush with death. It could possibly a delayed stress reaction."

 

"I don't think that was supposed to happen.  That was meant for Portnoy, not me.  If you think about it, we haven't been directly threatened once."

 

"Yet."

 

"There's my optimistic Russian that I know so well," Napoleon said, with a faint smile.  "I just hope those diaries are worth it."  He leaned back in the crushed velvet chair and closed his eyes.

 

Illya smiled, stood and patted a shoulder before returning to his sandwich and beer.

 

He must have dozed off, for a knock on the door roused him with a start.  Napoleon was still sleeping and Illya rose quickly, lest the noise wake him too.  He picked up the knife, slid it into his belt and then walked to the door in his room.  He stood to one side of it, "Yes?"

 

"Mr. Kuryakin, it's me, Englewood.  I think there's something wrong.  I can’t get Portnoy to answer me."

 

Illya didn't stop to think about how the man had screwed up enough courage to come out of his room, he automatically opened the door, concern furrowing his brow. He caught the blow right between the eyes and sprawled back with a soft thump, dead to the world.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

 

Napoleon Solo awoke gradually; feeling like it was his first good sleep in weeks.  His arm didn't hurt beyond a soft throb that some aspirin would take care of and the only other feeling he had was one of incredible hunger.  He opened his eyes and sat slowly up in the chair.  The fire had nearly gone out, leaving the room in darkness, despite the still‑opened curtains.

 

Carefully, he lit a kerosene lantern and glanced about for his partner.  No one was with him and he decided Illya must have returned to his own room for the night.

 

Napoleon stretched and stood intent on the bathroom, when a little bell went off in his head, one he always listened to.  It was a warning sign that meant danger.  Physical relief could wait until he pinpointed the problem and he would feel better if he had Illya there to chide him about his sixth sense.  Napoleon edged up to the connecting door and peered through it carefully.

 

The moon had broken from behind a cloud, gracing both his and Illya's room with an eerie bluish glow.  It was in that light that Napoleon saw the crumpled form on the carpet.  He knew it was Illya even from this distance.  Impulse made him want to rush to his partner's side, but it was quickly squashed beneath years of training.

 

Once Napoleon had deduced that the room was indeed empty of any other inhabitant, he took the lantern and moved to the Russian's side.  There was an open cut in the bridge of the man's nose and blood caked the blond hair on either side. That didn't worry Napoleon too much; he knew head wounds liked to bleed.  The steady pulse he found by touching the man’s neck also encouraged him.  He left to return with a washcloth and carefully bathed the wound until a hand came up, trying to push him away.

 

"Go 'way," Illya ordered weakly.

 

"Sorry, old man, can't do that."

 

Illya's eyes opened with a start.  "I mean it, Napoleon, go away.  Check on the others!"

 

Napoleon cut him off by planting a hand firmly over the Russian's mouth.  "If there's any trouble, it can wait.  Are you all right?"

 

"I think so."  Illya brought a hand up and tenderly touched the cut, then used the washcloth Napoleon offered to hold against it.

 

"You'll be lucky if you don't get two black eyes out of that.  Can you tell me what happened?"  He used his good arm to help Kuryakin into a sitting position.

 

"I was dozing when I heard a knock.  It was Englewood saying there was trouble.  Just like an amateur, I yanked the door open and got hit with a log or something equally as big."

 

"I bet it feels like it."  Napoleon said, as Illya paled and began to breathe heavier and faster.  “You...ah...need the bathroom.”

 

"I think so."  Despite the dangerous cant the room had taken on, Illya got to his feet and made a lopsided stagger to the bathroom door.  Napoleon stayed where he was, mostly to think, but also to give Illya some privacy.  He knew the man didn’t need Napoleon to hold his hand while he vomited.

 

A few minutes later, Illya emerged, hair damp, looking much more normal than just moments previously.

 

"Better?"

 

"A little.  Mostly I feel pretty stupid.  Opening that door just like some damned rookie…"

 

"Don't worry about it," Napoleon interrupted.  "You up to a little investigating?”  The Russian nodded, slowly.  “Let's go see what sort of trouble is afoot."  He stood and brushed off his pants.  He bent to retrieve the knife that had fallen from Kuryakin's belt.  "We may need this," he murmured and picked up the lantern.  "Let's look in on Mr. Englewood Corazon and see what he has to say about all of this."

 

The door to Englewood's bedroom stood open and the interior proved empty of any occupants.  "Well, looks like he may be your culprit," Napoleon decided, checking the closets one last time.  "Nothing in here except starving moths."

 

"That doesn't fill me with cheer," Illya muttered, rubbing a temple.  "If he's not here, then where is he?"

 

"Let's go ask his brothers."  Napoleon shut the closet door and went back into the hallway, heading for Portnoy's room with a resolute step.

 

Once again, a partially open door greeted them, but it wasn't that which immediately caught their attention.   Instead the crossbow that was mounted upon a chair in the hallway and the slack rope tied to the knob proved much more interesting.

 

“That wasn’t there when I checked on him earlier.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Napoleon, yes, I’m certain.  Something like that I’d have noticed.”

 

"I don't like the looks of this at all," Napoleon commented, keeping a clear distance from the weapon.

 

"It's been fired.  I'll give you one guess at the target."

 

"Do you want to look or shall I do the dirty work?" Napoleon waited until Illya gestured him onward.  They entered together and stopped.  Framed in the flickering light, Portnoy hung from the wall, defiance written on his face, his arms clutching the arrow that had ended his life.

 

"That's one less egotist in the world," Napoleon murmured. "At least you finally got your wish."

 

"My wish?" Illya's voice was stricken.

 

"Somebody took a pin and popped his bubble."  Napoleon unfolded the arms and tapped experimentally at the arrow that was buried up to its hilt in Portnoy's chest.  "We'll need pliers to get that out."  He took out his handkerchief and wiped the blood from his hand.

 

"I'm almost afraid to see what happened to Simpson." Illya sat on the edge of the rumpled bed wearily. "Sometimes it's almost too much..."

 

"I know," Napoleon said, patting Kuryakin's shoulder encouragingly, "but somebody's got to do it."

 

"It just gets frustrating.  No matter how hard you try, how well you do your job, it's never enough."  Illya stood and sighed.  "Shall we see if Simpson somehow managed to escape his family's fate?"

 

Napoleon looked back at the eldest Corazon and nodded. "You do realize that this makes Simpson our prime candidate."  He exited the room, with Illya close at his heels.

 

"That timid little mouse?" Illya nearly laughed and then the smile ran from his face.  "We still can’t rule Englewood out.  What makes you think that besides the fact that he's, presumably, the only one left alive?"

 

"I just have a feeling that it's window dressing.  He grabbed my arm outside of Portnoy's room and he had a very strong grip for someone who appears to be so frail."  Napoleon came to a stop before a heavy mahogany door.  He tried it and it refused to budge.  "Would you care to do the honors?"

 

Illya nodded and withdrew the knife from his pocket.  Keeping well to one side, he flicked out the thin blade and eased it into the crack between the door and the jam.  A sharp manipulation and the door creaked open.             Slowly, cautiously, Napoleon pushed it wide to reveal an empty room.  Bottles and decanters decorated the floor around one chair.

 

"Maybe he's gone down for a snack," Napoleon suggested.

 

“Napoleon, you know that I am no stranger to alcohol, but that much would easily lead to alcohol poisoning.  There is no physical way he could have consumed that much and been conscious, much less walk out of this room.”

 

“Agreed, then what…”  He stopped, looking down at the floor.  He was standing in a pool of water and it was then that he became aware of the sound of rushing water.  "The bathroom," he indicated to Illya and the Russian squished across the carpet to hammer on the door.

 

"Simpson?  Simpson, are you all right?"  He knocked again and the door swung open.  Water gushed from the bathtub's faucet, filling an already overflowing tub.  Illya stepped gingerly through the puddles and twisted the ornate fixtures off and glanced down through the water.  "Napoleon, he's in here."

 

Reluctantly, Napoleon left his search of the man's bureau and joined him, face clouded.  "Where?"

 

"Tub."

 

Napoleon looked inside the white porcelain bathtub and sighed, "Drowned?"  He rolled up his shirtsleeve and reached in to flip open the drain.

 

"Apparently so.  There's no blood and it might have been an accident.  As drunk as he was, he could have just passed out.  What are we going to do about Englewood?"

 

"I'm of the opinion that we should let him come to us. He’s the youngest and because of that, he grew up in the house and is much more familiar with all the nooks and crannies.  Found something that might interest you though."  Napoleon retreated from the bathroom and went back to the bureau.  "Look what I found in here."

 

Illya smiled as his partner held up a P‑38 with a white 'K' embossed on the grip.  "Boy, am I glad to see that. Yours?"

 

"Right beside it and this too," Napoleon said, passing over the weapon and a slip of paper.

 

The blond took both and then leaned close to the kerosene lamp to read the spidery scrawl.  "This is a list of all the contenders for the will."

 

"And each name is crossed out in turn, except for Englewood's, Simpson's and ours."

 

"I don't like the looks of the question marks by ours. What's scribbled out by Angelica's name?"

 

Napoleon leaned over the man's shoulder and squinted. "Don't know.  Possibly a suggestion of how she might die?"

 

"This is getting to be too much, Napoleon.  Can we tackle this in the morning?"

 

"Don't see why not."  Napoleon tucked the gun into his sling and picked up the lantern.  "I'll take the first watch."  They walked away, both unaware of the figure that stood in the shadows not ten feet from the door.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER NINE

 

Napoleon Solo wearily pushed aside the tangle of blankets and sheets.  Sleeping had been nearly impossible last night.  He picked up his robe, slipped it on and fumbled one‑handed with the buttons.  Knotting the belt proved difficult, but he didn't give up until he had a halfway decent knot in it.

 

Illya was sitting upon the couch, weapon dismantled on a small table before him, seemingly oblivious to everything else except the task at hand.  The blond head turned as the American entered and settled into one of the nearby chairs.  The area around both of the Russian’s eyes was slightly swollen and turning colors as was his forehead.  The curtains were open and daylight struggled through the panes.  Outside the wind was howling and pounding against the glass for entry.

 

“Long night?” Napoleon asked.  A head bob.  “How’s the head?”  A shrug.

 

Illya held the disassembled barrel up towards the window and squinted down it.  Apparently dissatisfied, he picked up the cloth wad and ran it through the barrel again.  "Both the guns were fired.  In fact, my clip was nearly half emptied."

 

"I wonder what sort of bullet they'll find when they autopsy Cleve, as if I don't know.  Did we have any visitors?"

 

"None, although I thought I heard the knob tried once. Either it was my imagination or Englewood thought better of it."  Illya looked down the barrel again and nodded in satisfaction.

 

"His hand will be forced soon.  That lawyer is scheduled to show up later today.  With six murders..."

 

"Four," Illya corrected.  "We don't know that Simpson was murdered and Angelica certainly wasn't."

 

"All right, four murders, it's still fairly grim."

 

"Unless that was the plan to begin with.  Remember, it was pointed out that the family would kill each other if forced to stay in close quarters for too long."  Illya quickly assembled his gun, using the cotton rag to polish the steel to a gleam.

 

"Agreed," Napoleon murmured standing and rubbing his upper left arm.

 

"Bothering you?"

 

"Not too much," Napoleon lied easily.  “You don’t look so hot yourself.”

 

“It’s going to make wearing my glasses hell for a couple of days,” Illya said.

 

"I'm going to get cleaned up, and then maybe we can rustle up some breakfast."

 

"At least we won't be unarmed this time," Illya murmured; aiming the gun out the window, jaw firm, hands steady.  "You don't know how comforting that is for me."

 

"Oh, I have a pretty good idea."  Napoleon headed for the bathroom.  What he really wanted was a long hot shower, but settled for a bath instead.  He was relaxing back into the water, eyes closed, when he had a soft squeak of a door opening and his head came up, only to drop back as he recognized his partner.  "Not even safe in here, am I?"

 

"I heard something in the hall and I didn't know if you wanted to come or not.  In any case, here's your gun.  I'm going for a look."

 

"Give me five minutes. Would you toss me that towel?"

 

Illya was perched upon the edge of the dresser as Napoleon emerged, awkwardly toweling off his hair one handed.  "Anything?"

 

"I thought I heard footsteps," he looked towards the ceiling. "Up there."

 

"The attic?" Napoleon said, draping the damp towel over a chair back.  "I'm not too keen on the idea of the killer being able to get his hands on all that torture equipment." He tucked his gun into his sling out of sight.  "Let's hope this isn't our Waterloo we're rushing into."

 

"The only reason Napoleon lost at Waterloo was because he suffered from hemorrhoids so badly that he couldn't ride a horse and oversee the battle."   Illya walked to the door, gun at ready, and opened it carefully.

 

"You're kidding."

 

"That’s the story.  Look it up for yourself.  The coast is clear.  Shall we try the attic first?"

 

Despite having been previously closed and blocked shut, the attic door now swung open, rocking back and forth on squeaky hinges.

 

"I'll go up first," Illya whispered.  He flattened himself against the wall and eased his way slowly up.  To Napoleon, it seemed an eternity before the Russian cleared the top of the staircase and waved him on.  He wasn't able to maintain as low a profile as his partner because of his arm, but it didn't prevent him from being as cautious.

 

Watery daylight streamed through the windows, giving the attic a less forbidding appearance.  All the same, the draped bodies and the existence of torture chamber just steps away did nothing to calm Napoleon's anxiety.

 

Illya gestured towards the first room off to the right and Napoleon nodded.  Even from outside the room, it was apparent that someone had been here.  Bits of the skeleton they'd found previous were strewn over the floor, while the skull sat on a windowsill, staring out at the autumn sky.

 

"Find what you were looking for, gentlemen?"  Both men turned as Englewood stepped out from the room used for a makeshift morgue.  In his hands was a crossbow similar to the one found in Portnoy's room.

 

"We were looking for you.  Now, I'm not so sure I'm glad we found you."

 

"I vote, not."  Illya had started to ease his hand towards his gun, but the crossbow jerked in his direction.

 

"I don’t think so, Mr. Kuryakin.  Now, if you'd be good enough to pass over your gun.  And you, Mr. Solo?"

 

"I'm unarmed," Napoleon protested, waggling the fingers of his immobilized arm.  "Left handed, you know."

 

"Then you wouldn't mind if I searched you?"  Englewood crossed the floor with a sure step.  He stopped before them and pressed the point of the arrow firmly against Illya's chest. "One jump, one twitch and your friend here becomes a pin cushion."

 

Illya’s face remained frozen even as the tip of the arrow began to draw blood and his eyes pleaded with Napoleon, but the American remained motionless as one hand patted him down.  Englewood stood back, obviously satisfied, and said, "Now, would you like to tell me what this is all about?  Why have you killed my brothers and sisters?"

 

"What?" Illya was incredulous and he reached up to push the arrow away from his chest.  "What makes you think we've done anything?"

 

"You're the only ones left alive, aren't you?" Somehow, Englewood wasn't convinced.

 

"And you," Napoleon pointed out, carefully shifting the hidden gun into a workable position.  "We thought you were the murderer."

 

"Oh right, like I have the brains to work something like this out.  If I were Port or you, maybe I’d have figured something out, but not me. I want my father's wealth, who wouldn't?  But I wouldn't kill for it, especially since I couldn't get away with it."  He lowered the weapon and sunk onto a sheet covered chair. "Everyone else could, but I'd get caught."

 

Suddenly, one of the draped bodies in the far room sat upright beneath the sheet and Illya grabbed Napoleon's good arm. "Napoleon, look!"

 

"Good lord!"

 

The effect on Englewood was even more pronounced.  He stared, obviously forgetful of the crossbow at his feet.

 

"C'mon, Englewood," demanded Portnoy's voice.  "Be a man; it'll be a whole new experience for you!"

 

"When did you bring him up here," shrieked Englewood, looking wildly from one UNCLE agent to the other.

 

"We didn't," Napoleon said, slipping his gun from the sling.

 

"Grow up," Portnoy demanded.   "Don't be as big a disgrace to this family as your mother was."

 

"My mother had the soul of a saint."

 

"And the habits of a prostitute, that one.  Always whoring around, sleeping with anything that held still long enough to copulate with.  Why do you think Father locked her up?  She was mad with lust, not insanity."  The sheet shifted as if to stand.

 

"No, that's not true!"  Englewood was on his feet, shaking and covered with a thin sheen of sweat.  "Stay away from me, Portnoy.  Leave me alone."

 

"Oh, I don't want your body, not like it is, but like it was.  Just like it used to be, Engle, just the three of us."

 

"I'd rather be dead first!"  And Englewood turned on his heel.  Napoleon, silent throughout this ghastly exchange suddenly realized the man's words.

 

"Englewood, don't!"  He tried to stop the man, but his slinged arm was between them.  "Illya, stop him."

 

The Russian turned to pursue, but it was too late. With one last shriek, Englewood ran headlong into a window, crashing through the ancient glass and wood as if it were paper.  Illya stopped just short of the gaping hole and looked cautiously through it.  Only the thundering waves greeted him.  Napoleon joined him and they continued to watch the waves in the hopes of catching one last sight of the man.

 

"And that's that," came a voice from behind them and both men turned.  The sheet had dropped from the form, revealing the lawyer, Mr. Fulker, standing among the corpses.  "The last clause in the Corazon will is fulfilled."

 

"You want to tell us what this is all about?" Napoleon demanded angrily.  Despite his efforts not to, he'd grown fond of Englewood.

 

"Mr. Corazon was quite specific in his will, Mr. Solo. None of his children were worthy of the name nor the wealth attached to it.  I was simply granting his final wish.  That all his children be...eliminated."

 

"And that gives you the right to commit murder?"  Illya stalked to the man, his broad face dark.

 

"Indeed it does, Mr. Kuryakin.  I will spare you the details, the horrors committed by these demons.  All like their father in too many ways."  The lawyer tossed the sheet back onto the uncovered body of Cleve.  "Luckily, mimicry is one of my many talents."

 

"Exactly the sort of game that we would expect from a Corazon."  The voice was muffled, as if passing through a shroud.  The lawyer jumped back from the body.  "But you're dead!" he exclaimed.  "I killed all of you."

 

"You can't kill what never really existed."

 

"This is not funny," the lawyer shouted, backing out of the room and rushing for the staircase.  Unfortunately, he failed to negotiate the narrow stairs and tripped, falling headlong down the flight, a scream dying in his throat as he came to a stomach lurching stop at the base of the stairs.

 

"Now it's over," Napoleon said softly.

 

 

 

EPILOGUE

 

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin watched as the last of the sheet covered bodies was carried from the Corazon house.

 

"If it wasn't for the fact that my boss vouched for you two, I'd have both of you in the slammer at this very moment," the police detective muttered, while scribbling into his notepad.  "It seems damned peculiar that after killing all those people, this lawyer feller just happens to commit suicide at the last minute."

 

"His was not a rational mind," Napoleon intoned, attempting to sound mystical, and the corner of Illya's mouth twitched with a suppressed smile.

 

"I suppose not.  If you would like to get your luggage, we'll be happy to drop you at a hotel in town.”

 

A search of the house had revealed their luggage, still packed in Portnoy’s room.  Their other devices were scattered about in the rest of his chambers.  A quick check in by communicator had brought the local authorities down upon them, but not before each agent had reclaimed their own property.

 

Napoleon nodded and walked back into the house, no longer a death trap, but just an empty, hollow shell.

 

"I didn't know you could throw your voice," Illya murmured as they filed past two patrolmen.

 

"One of my many hidden talents.  I was just surprised that he fell for it...literally."

 

"Bad pun, Napoleon, and how did you find out about the lawyer being a relative?"

 

"Luck, mostly.  If Englewood wasn't killing everyone, then the only one left was the lawyer.  I was reading in that family history and noted there was talk of an illegitimate son, but never gave it too much thought until then.  Since the will did say the surviving Corazon got everything, I was hoping that greed might have forced his hand."

 

"Just like usual," Illya said, opening the door to their adjoining bedrooms.  "I wonder how Mr. Waverly will feel about not getting the diaries.  Hopefully, he'll not hold you personally responsible.  At least we’ll get out of here and get you some medical attention."

 

"Won't make much difference, not in the long run, but that doesn't make me feel any better about having to file this report."  Napoleon walked over to his closet and pulled out his suitcase, hefting it awkwardly upon the bed with his good hand.  "Funny, this thing weighs a lot more now than it did..." he trailed off as he popped the lid and stared down at seven identically bound books.

 

"What were you saying," Illya asked, walking in from the other room.

 

Napoleon smiled and let the lid fall back down.  "Oh, nothing..."

 


End file.
